To shape one's Will
by angelofthelightanddark
Summary: What are weapons without their Heros? And what are Heros without their weapons? Legends are built from something after all... Part two of the Silent before the Grave series.


The blacksmith bites back a shriek when she materializes out of the shadows by the anvil. It is late and the only light comes from the fire that still crackles on the hearth. He hadn't even heard her footsteps!

"Your Grace!" he says, hurriedly fixing a nervous smile on his face. "What can I do for you?"

She gives a quiet hum, her demonic red eyes flickering over the swords on the walls, the blades of axes gleaming in the forge-light.

She is quiet for a moment longer, one hand idly toying with the hem of her sleeve. She is lightly armored, as always. The blacksmith doesn't think he's ever seen her wear casual clothing. Albion's deadly Necromancer Queen is ever ready for battle and today is no exception.

"Could you make a staff?" she requests.

"A staff?" he says, startled by the request. "I'm not—" he stops talking as her gaze swings to him.

She takes a step forward, tilting her head to eye him as a predator would prey. "Not what?"

"I'm not a wood crafter, Your Grace, I mean, I can try but I don't know how good it would be. I craft iron, Your Majesty, metal is—," he cuts off again as she moves another step closer.

She is tall and stares down at him, the blue of her magic glowing faintly in the tattoos that creep vine-like up her face to frame her bright eyes. "A staff of metal would work," she says quietly.

He nods, "A non-traditional approach then?" He has to fight to keep his voice from trembling.

"Yes."

He moves to his worktable, hastily pulling out parchment and lead. He quickly sketches several rough designs. The Queen walks over as he finishes the fourth one and surveys his work.

"You do good work," she murmurs, pale fingers tracing the lines of one design.

"Thank you, Your Majesty," the blacksmith replies.

She glances over the sketches for few minutes. "This one," she says, tapping the chosen parchment.

"Use this for the focus," she adds, pulling a glowing red ruby from a pocket. It thrums with ancient power. She wraps it in cloth and sets it on the table.

"Of course, Your Grace," the man answers. "When did you want it done by?"

The Queen shakes her head. "When it is ready, send word. I wish for nothing less than your best."

"As you wish," he says. She smiles and it is a rather kind smile, out of place with the way she moves and the air she projects. A predator amongst mere mortals.

"Be well, smith. I shall return when you bring word." With that she vanishes into the shadows of the night. He sighs and turns his attention back to the table and finds a _huge_ bag of coin sitting there.

He glances around, and cautiously opens it. Gold pieces gleam inside.

"Sweet Avo," he breathes. "Right, a staff, I can do this…"

* * *

A month passes and he waits for the Queen's arrival. It is night when she arrives. He hears her coming this time. Her armor glitters briefly as she steps into the shop. A fresh cut mars her temple and blood stains her gloves. A sword is belted to her hip, a pistol resting in a holster on the opposite side of her waist.

"You finished it?" her tone is brisk.

"Yes, Your Grace," he says, producing the staff from its resting place beside the coin box.

The staff is made of twisted master steel, and it gleams like starlight. The head of a dragon rises from the body of the staff and its eyes gleam an iridescent blue. The focus rests in the mouth of the dragon, shining like blood in the light.

The Queen smiles, and takes it gently from the smith's hands. "Beautiful," she breathes. The Stone of Myr'Bregothil glows as she turns the staff over in her hands.

The magic sings through her and she takes a steadying breath as the power floods her veins.

"Perfect," she says, sighing as the magic settles. "I am pleased."

"Thank you, Your Majesty," the blacksmith says. "I am glad to be of service."

She laughs quietly, dropping her hand down the staff. The metal gives a quiet clunk as it lands on the floor. As it stands, the head is level with her shoulder. She gives an approving nod.

"Excellent work, master smith."

"Thank you, Your Grace," the smith replies.

The Queen nods and with a quiet "Good night", leaves the shop.

The blacksmith closes up the shop behind her, muttering a thanks to Avo that the Queen had been pleased with his work. He would have hated to disappoint. Bad things tended to happen to people who made her angry.

* * *

The Queen walks quickly up the street, finding the road to the cemetery empty. Not surprising given the time of day.

She easily navigates through the quiet resting place of Bowerstone's dead to a small grave in the back, near the Fairfax crypt. It had taken some work getting the information from Jeeves but he had told her what she needed to know in the end.

She kneels beside the small headstone. "Hey, Rosie," she murmurs. She sits vigil by the grave for nearly an hour, telling her sister of all that she has accomplished.

The staff glows as she finally stands and focusing her Will, she makes roses bloom around the grave. The petals gleam in the moonlight.

"I'll be back," she says softly. "Promise."

The wind stirs the flowers as she leaves and for a moment she thinks she can hear Rose's laughter on the breeze.

 _Rest in peace, sister. You are avenged._


End file.
